


Audio Feedback

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, blink and you'll miss it reference to self harm, brief non-explicit references to sex, cursing in human and alien languages, implied substance abuse typical of rick, most of it is from the kids' pov, really a lot of extremely brief references to bad stuff, that thankfully flies over the kids' heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: Dipper and Mabel find a lot of strange things in the Mystery Shack. A copier that copies people. A carpet that switches bodies. But nothing they come across is quite like the album of weird, screaming punk music they find hidden away in their Grunkle's secret hidey-hole. And one song on it seems strangely sentimental....





	

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the Stanchez Micro-Bang!
> 
> Awesome art by Deadsamurai13: http://deadsamurai13.tumblr.com/post/152190339669/my-art-for-the-stanchez-bang-for-the-work-audio  
> And by spooky-yelling: http://spooky-yelling.tumblr.com/post/152133512390/my-piece-for-thesnadgers-story-audio

“Hey Dipper! Get in here! I found some really great junk!”

Dipper stopped on the landing and looked down the hallway at his sister. She was kneeling in front of the door to a closet, hunched down and peering at something he couldn't see.

“There's nothing in there but some old coats and a vacuum.” Dipper said, approaching Mabel. He'd walked into that closet twice already that summer while stumbling around looking for the bathroom at

“Oh ye of little faith.” Mabel grinned, turning around. She shoved the vacuum to the back of the closet, and with a flourish pointed to a trap door hidden under it. “Bada-bam! Check it out...”

Mabel lifted the top of the trapdoor, reached down and pulled out a dusty cardboard box, held together by a few disintegrating scraps of tape.

“Weird secret hidey-hole box! I wanted to get you so we could open it together.”

Dipper's eyes widened with interest as he inspected the box more closely. He pulled off the thin strip of masking tape holding it closed—so old at this point that the glue was barely there—and opened it. There was a ratty old leather jacket folded up in there, with a pair of brass knuckles resting on top of it.

“This must be some of Grunkle Stan's old stuff.” Dipper said, slightly disappointed it was something so mundane instead of a map to some hidden ruins or a cursed idol or something. He picked up the brass knuckles and examined them, slipping his fingers through holes that were far too big for him and miming punching the air. As he ran his thumb over the bottom, he felt something—a carving or an engraving.

“Eeeee, Dipper!” Mabel squealed. “Look how skinny Grunkle Stan used to be!”

Dipper turned and looked—Mabel was holding the leather jacket up, letting its arms dangle down to the floor. It was clearly made to fit someone tall and thin. Their Grunkle Stan would never be able to squeeze into it nowadays.

“Wow. He was a real beanpole, all right.” Dipper smirked. He glanced down at the words carved into the knuckles. “Me haces feliz...” he read. “What do you think that means?”

“I think it's Spanish for 'I have fleas.'” Mabel replied, tossing the jacket over her shoulders and digging back into the box.

Dipper reached in and pulled out an “Old Stubborn” cigar box, which was sealed with a piece of tape as flimsy as the stuff that had held the box together. Inside was, well...random junk, really. Ticket stubs from what looked like concerts...little pieces of scrap paper with notes scribbled on them in handwriting so terrible that Dipper couldn't make out a single word. A Zagnut bar wrapper that had been pressed flat and preserved like some kind of rare treasure...a seashell, coins from foreign countries....

There was a sealed envelope in there too, one that felt like it might have pictures in it. Dipper left it in. Maybe later he'd boil some water and try to steam it open.

He kept rooting around, moving aside more old clothes, what looked like car parts, a switchblade (yikes!) and a...something...in a jar. Dipper pulled that one out and held it up to the light. A weird, fleshy circle with something dangling off it...and a tree-like protrusion with pink bubbles coming out of the top. Dipper figured Stan must have made it out of latex or something as an attraction for the Mystery Shack. Gross.

He set it aside—something else had caught his interest. There was something green and fluorescent at the bottom of the box.

Dipper reached in and pulled out what looked like a dusty old record album. On the front was a picture of a middle-aged man with a unibrow lounging on a zebra-print couch, next to a bunch of people made up to look like aliens. Most of them were wearing tight, glittery clothing. All the colors on the cover seemed too bright, like they were emanating their own light. It made the whole thing feel weirdly radioactive.

“Oooh, what's that?” Mabel asked, no doubt attracted by the so-shiny-it-burned album art. Dipper flipped it over, looking at the front and back. There was no English on any of it—actually there was no language he recognized at all. Everything from the album title to the tiny copyright on the bottom was written in these strange, esoteric-looking glyphs. More ciphers?

He took a closer look at the people on the cover, wondering if it was really make up that made them look alien, or....

“I don't know.” Dipper said. “I've never seen anything like it...” he paused. “Or, wait..maybe I have. It kind of reminds me of that CD Robbie used to brainwash Wendy. Some weird, demonic music thing...” He took the record out to inspect it closer, handing the cover to Mabel to admire.

“The record looks normal...I think.” Dipper added. “Honestly I don't know if I've ever seen an actual record up close before.” He frowned, running his finger along the edge of the disc. “But....I _do_ know there's a record player in the den of the Shack that we can use. Wanna give it a listen?” he grinned.

“I dunno, brobro.” Mabel frowned, eyeing the bottles of what had to be beer, the piles of weird, blue powder around the figures on the album cover. “This looks a little...PG-13, or worse. We're only twelve....”

“C'mon, Mabel! You know the Shack is full of all kinds of weird supernatural stuff! We can't just ignore this...it might be dangerous. Or...” Seeing the hesitation still on Mabel's face, Dipper thought he'd try another tactic. “Or...it might be magic or something...and listening to it might give us superpowers?”

Mabel weighed the possibilities in her head. “Hmm. Well...I am _long_ overdue for superpowers. And the guy with wings on the cover is pretty hunky...okay!” She smiled. “I'm in!”

“Great!” Dipper grinned, tucking the album under his arm and heading down to the den where the record player was waiting. The two of them set up on top of the card table and put the album on.

They were immediately bombarded by fast guitar chords, frantic drum playing and a series of low-pitched coos and caws. Dipper turned the volume knob down and took a step back. Even Wendy's friends didn't listen to anything this weird.

 

“ _Well I checked around for you in the place with all the fish_ ” a voice started singing.

“ _They didn't see you there so I drove into a ditch_

_I hope you close your window and I hope you lock your door_

_Cause I don't really r-really wanna stalk you anymore_ ”

 

“ _I was out smoking frogskins at the bleepor bloopor bar_

_I started throwing cinderblocks at the side of your car_

_You didn't come to stop me but I guess you know the score_

_Cause I don't really really wanna break your shit no more_ ”

 

Dipper and Mabel stared at each other as the song continued playing. Dipper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting—backwards messages, hypnotizing lyrics maybe—but it sure hadn't been this. Before he knew it, the song had petered out and the next one was starting.

 

“ _I once had a head_

_Growing out of my head_

_But it wasn't my head_

_It was hujjuhj buhjuhbuh_

 

“ _And I juhhug hug a buguhug_

_With that guy's head too_

_Horse horse horse horse haaaubuhbuh_

_A buh buh hujugbauhja_

 

“ _I once had a dog_

_And the dog was a chiropractor_

_But he broke my spine_

_Bad dog! Bad dog!_

_Hugjah jah beb beb_ ”

 

It went on like that, switching back and forth between English and some weird gibberish language. Dipper grinned. This was more like it--weird languages, hidden codes! He listened intently as the song faded out, and the next one began.

“ _I FUCKED YOUR DAD!”_ the voice started screaming, giving Mabel just barely enough time to cover her ears. “I FUCKED YOUR DAD! I FUCKED YOUR DAD! HEY Y-YOU! YEAH, YOU WITH THE GLASSES! I FUCKED YOUR DAD! YOU WITH THE THING G-GR-ROWING OUTTA YOUR FACE! I FUCKED YOUR DAD! ALL OF YOU IN THE BACK ROW, I FUCKED ALL OF YOUR DA--”

Dipper pulled the needle off the record as quickly as he could, letting it fall back in a random spot. He winced....maybe this whole thing was just a big joke. Was that last one even a song? He listened warily to the instrumental lead-up that was currently playing. It had the same weird cooing and the loud guitar, but it seemed a little slower this time. Maybe softer, it was hard to tell.

 

_ "I smell the gas  _

_ That spilled on your shirt _

_ Cause I made you laugh _

_ While you were siphoning. _

_ Would you still have  _

_ Stolen that car  _

_ If you knew it had  _

_ A man in the trunk? _

_ I still hear the crowd screaming into the pit  _

_ Telling that bruiser to fucking kill you. _

_ And you're on the ground with blood on your face  _

_ And you’re looking over to me for help _

 

_ And you know who... _

_ You know who... _

_ You know who you are _

 

_ The tires screech _

_ The engine splutters _

_ As we go flying  _

_ Off the rocky cliff’s edge _

_ Dangling off rocks _

_ Arms 'round your leg  _

_ You can’t seem to speak _

_ And you c-can't look down _

_ Locked in a cage with a tranquilized panther _

_ With soft, warm fur and the promise of death  _

_ Gritting your teeth as you try to hold still  _

_ Gunfire in Texas, knives in Marakesh _

 

_ And you know who... _

_ You know who... _

_ You know who you are. _

 

_ Loud paisley shirts, _

_ The smell of wet road _

_ You chew so much gum, _

_ I taste it on your teeth. _

_ Stink of cigars, _

_ Burnt circuit board,  _

_ As I try to weld  _

_ Sitting in your car _

_ The jacket you stole from a passed out biker, _

_ The chain that I won counting cards for you. _

_ Ozone and awe the first time I showed you, _

_ What this green gun in my pocket could do. _

 

_ And you know who... _

_ You know who... _

_ You know who you are. _

 

 

_ You're screaming at me through the haze, _

_ In the fountain outside of a church, _

_ Holding me while I slip in and out, _

_ Barely aware of you trying to help _

_ I can't remember what I've taken, _

_ And there's something sour in my mouth, _

_ But you're talking to me to keep me awake. _

 

_ Stale cigarettes,  _

_ Piled up for weeks, _

_ While we had to hide _

_ In that dingy shithole.  _

_ Thick raspy voice,  _

_ From the shower,  _

_ It’s the only place  _

_ I hear you singing. _

_ Blood n' sweat spread over too many places, _

_ Had too many names and too many lies.  _

_ Your voice in my ear, muffled and angry,  _

_ But I'm not saying anything at all. _

 

_ And you're telling me to choose _

_ And I'm making the wrong choice _

 

_ And you know who... _

_ You know who... _

_ You know who you are. _

 

_ The jagged scar  _

_ That moves up your arm _

_ Down the lane, so I  _

_ Know you really meant it. _

_ Thud of your fists _

_ Hitting the wall _

_ You think I can't see _

_ What you're doing here.  _

_ You get shitfaced and tell me that you're nothing,  _

_ I know you're dumb enough to believe it.  _

_ Cut your hand open punching the mirror, _

_ I only hear broken glass when you laugh. _

 

_ Don't you know who...? _

_ Don't you know who...? _

_ Don't you know who y—" _

The needle was yanked off the record with an unpleasant noise. The two of them looked up to see Grunkle Stan standing behind them--one hand holding the needle, the other on his hip. He dropped the needle and picked up the record album.

“Busted.” he said.

“Uh...we were just--” Dipper began.

Stan cut him off, slipping the album back into its case. “Where'd the two of you even find this?”

Dipper shrugged. “Just...around.”

“It was in your secret box of personal stuff hidden under the floorboards.” Mabel added. Stan's frown deepened a notch.

Dipper sighed. Well, as long as they were caught, he might as well ask questions. “Why do you even have that thing? Where did it come from? It doesn't exactly seem like your taste in music...”

“What a man keeps in his secret box under the floor boards is his own business.” Stan said, finality in his voice. “Anyway. Some kid puked in the gift shop and guess who gets to clean it up now?”

He pulled a mop from behind the chair and tossed it at Dipper, throwing the bucket to Mabel. The two of them groaned.

“Aww, man...” Dipper grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm a mean old slavedriver. Now get a move on.”

Dipper felt a hand pushing into the small of his back as Grunkle Stan shoved them towards the gift shop entrance. He sighed and trudged onward. So much for answers.

 

* * *

 

Stan sat on the edge of his bed, holding the Flesh Curtains album in his hands. He hadn't played that song in over a decade. When he'd heard it coming from the den, it had felt like something from a dream, so out of place in his life right now.

He'd never know who sent him that album. It hadn't been Rick, that was for sure. If Rick had known that Stan was ever going to hear that song, he'd probably have burned every copy. But he was grateful to whoever _had_ sent it to him...probably Bird Person. He always seemed like a stand-up guy.

Stan sighed. He'd have to invest in a couple of locks. Those two kids kept snooping around like this, no telling what they could find.

He was just glad they hadn't made it to track seven. That was the _other_ song Rick had written about him. And he wasn't exactly ready to have to explain half a dozen pornographic terms to a couple of twelve year olds, that was for sure.

 


End file.
